The Erased, page 15
Szilard had to stop and ask for directions.
Can you fathom the possibility that the course of all world events was decided on by a man who knew how to get to somebody’s house? Some faceless, nameless guy that would not be remembered by history? Erased from the history books by destiny?
America dropped Fat Man and Little Boy on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in the summer of 1945. Oppenheimer famously quoted the Bhagavad Gita – “I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” Two years later, the Soviets had developed the bomb, and an arms race the likes of which the world had never seen was underway.
This arms race led a military strategist by the name of Hermann Kahn to write On Thermonuclear War, a treatise on the theory of mutually assured destruction by means of, as the title might suggest, thermonuclear war. Many things happened as a direct result of Kahn's theories of nuclear strategy -- the term "megadeaths" was coined; some joker wrote a book called Red Alert which Stanley Kubrick satirically adapted into the film Dr. Strangelove; and the Soviets, as a means of nuclear deterrence (and much like the characters of the film I just mentioned) developed a doomsday device known as the Dead Hand.
Many have theorized about what exactly the Dead Hand does and few people actually know. It's become something of a myth since the execution of Robert Henry Baines -- the man who challenged the world to give him a reason not to use the "trigger," and who eventually had a fateful conversation with Anthony Block.
I have in my possession a rare issue of Popular Science from September of 1962 that discusses the possibilities of doomsday devices that suggests the Soviets had not yet stumbled across a technology on a grand enough scale to destroy human life on this planet, so we can't say with any certainty that it had been developed that early. Another article from Wired Magazine published in late 2009 suggests that the device was continually manned, and places its construction at 1985. The strategy of the "Perimetr System," as it's called, was to ensure a nuclear retaliation in the event of a US strike.
But by the time Robert Henry Baines -- Bobby, as Block called him -- got his hands on it, it could be activated by a small, shoebox sized remote trigger. The possibility that the remote trigger could be used to control a Russian arsenal is laughable, yes. But it wouldn't have to be the Russian arsenal, would it? No, truth be told, a few well placed nuclear devices on the sea floor could do just as much damage, worldwide. Planted long ago by Soviet subs and nearly forgotten after the fall of the empire, devices that would trigger catastrophic flooding, pollute the seas with radioactivity for decades, and perhaps even shift the Earth's tectonic plates... well, there's a recipe for extinction. All in the hands of a thirty-something epileptic hiding out in a hotel in New York City... after being given the device by a Russian defector by the codename of Rogozhin.
Seven days.
The splash pages were all over the Knowledgebase. The rather large news headlines went on and on – the main story: “SEVEN DAYS,” without any other reference to what the article itself was about, told the story in and of itself. They tried to avoid the use of the word “Doomsday” or “Armageddon” or “Apocalypse,” but the end result was all too clear. They didn’t say the end of the world was coming, finally, as so often had been the case in the past hundred or so years, but simply showed the picture of the terrorist, clearly an American, sitting in a blank room (a clock behind him, displaying the time of 11:53 – probably just another indicator of the gravity of the situation). He wears glasses and a beard.
Each article bleeds with the words “dead hand” and “Perimetr.” The Knowledgebase itself and numerous media outlets hacked to carry the video... people believed it. Well, half the people. A great many just went on with their lives, having lived in the shadow of the bomb since Hiroshima. They thought this was either a hoax or just another terrorist, probably working with those damn Arabs, who’d be foiled in the nick of time by some cosmic deus ex machina. But something he said before making the declaration of his ransom really struck a chord with the apathetic masses.
And why did the masses believe him? Surely a show of force was necessary to instill such belief across the country. Certainly, major media outlets were hacked; the man’s strange and rambling videos were seen everywhere. The response from the government, from the press, that led to the public’s belief. Because ideas are like that.
He called himself the judge, the arbiter of the world’s destruction, claiming that it was time to stop waiting for the invisible higher power that all the world had been waiting to see for so long, and to simply allow judgment day to come. Few outlets, aside from right wing neocon run networks, didn’t quote him on that, trying not to use words like “Judgment Day” on secular news sites.
His ransom? “Why does the world deserve to continue spinning with humanity on it’s surface? I will give seven days, until midnight next Sunday, for someone to give me a reason. Seven days for someone to tell me why you should survive.”
The nearest question to demand an answer like that seemed to be, “why are we here?” The futility of such a question escaping even the most theological mind, the answer almost always having something to do with the words “mysterious ways.”
But why? Was this a hoax? Why would so many news outlets run with such a story if it weren’t true? Why would they take this man so seriously?
But that’s just the way it goes. Why would anyone let the truth get in the way of a good story, especially in today’s world? And this had it all… A terrorist, a challenge, fear of imminent destruction… That’s the way the press in America, and sadly, the world, works. That’s what sells. Stories spread like nuclear winter, blanketing the planet.
The power that it would take to invoke such an extinction event, well, that you have to take on faith. He couldn’t very well show the force he had in his hands, otherwise none of us would be here.
The man doesn’t give a name, doesn’t say where he is, and doesn’t give reasons. He doesn’t say the planet is too sick to survive, he doesn’t say humanity has wronged him, he doesn’t do specifics. He simply, for lack of a better word, is.
Well, Robert Henry Baines was caught, 7 days later, in the nick of time, passed out on the floor next to the box, the remote trigger. He was immediately charged with conspiracy to commit mass terrorism/murder and executed about a year later. They found a single book in his cell – Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot, which was that writer’s attempt at creating the perfect, Christ-like character – the perfect man. Those are the facts as I know them, the story in the public record and immortalized in the Knowledgebase.
Anthony, well… he was just a victim of circumstance. He lived in Washington, worked in a pharmacy day in and day out, had a dog, visited strip clubs because he didn’t have a steady girlfriend. Young and underemployed, he saw in the world what it was not – a place for him. He fantasized about going deeper; he watched from a distance as others enjoyed the fruits of life… like when he sat in his car watching people enter and exit an underground sex club called Shadows. He was the only one who tracked down Robert Henry Baines and offered an answer, and his whole life has slipped away from him because of it.
But there are other threads to the story of Robert Henry Baines and the Dead Hand device. Policies that were created behind closed doors. Maybe one of those policies involved the covert incarceration of undesirable individuals who could threaten the stability of the country after the threat of such total destruction. (Policy makers labeled the Dead Hand device a Weapon of Total Destruction, or WTD.) But a hunchback scientist by the name of Emil Smalley, under the employ of the Bureau of Enemy Study, a subdivision of the Office of Strategic Services, offered an even more insidious plan for this covert incarceration… experimentation.
He envisioned a project that could help humanity survive an extinction event like that almost triggered by Robert Henry Baines. So, in his own way, Anthony Block became the cause of his own torment. The far-fetched story in which he was a bit character extended outward and circled back on him… he himself was punished for having the power in the palm of his hand to be the arbiter of Earth’s destruction. And he has paid. Probably moreso than Robert Henry Baines, whose suffering ended years and years ago.
So then, there's the project that I spoke of, conceived by Dr. Emil Smalley, originally focused out in the California desert. Anthony Block just fell into it by accident -- the research that Smalley put in called for an epileptic and Anthony had gotten into trouble with the law... in southern California, as luck would have it. Emil had given the project its name -- "Perdix," after an old myth. They got what they needed from Anthony and abandoned him and their facility in the desert.
And so, the way room leads to room and book leads to book, fate has led Anthony back to those with whom he belongs. I can’t help but revere and respect him. From his sacrifices comes the new world. Through all of their sacrifices we are able to build a utopia where none of it will matter anymore.
Tags: Anthony Block, Perdix, dead hand
CONFIDENTIAL
From: Printout, File 2296723624
INTERNAL USE ONLY
File playback in progress.
It's not difficult to get away from the compound -- it never was, really. The orderlies pay attention to their specific rounds, and since they are machines, that's all they focus on. If you're smart enough, you could time them and slip past the perimeter defenses easily.
I’ve been tired. And the headaches are getting worse. Timing the orderlies has become difficult due to the cognitive interference, the headaches. Something’s dampening my ability to function, but I’m not far enough gone yet; I can still make my escape.
It's not every day that you realize that this day, this hour, is going to be the one that defines the rest of your existence. And that something out there past the woods is calling you. You can't stay Home a minute longer. Maybe it's the call of family that's beckoning, or maybe that's just what makes the desire for freedom stronger. What must have happened to Irene? Jacob? Are they still living their lives, only without me? Do they think that I have willfully left them?
Maybe Irene hates me because she thinks I’ve left. Maybe she’s moved away from Aurora and I'll never be able to find her and Jacob again.
Out in the woods, everything appears more lush. The air smells sweeter, the light through the trees brighter. I'm on my way to freedom, I think to myself as I follow a slightly worn dirt path. Would I be dumb enough to think such a path would lead me anywhere but a place I wouldn't want to go? I should just be running through the underbrush, but I can't function properly. I have a headache.
After a couple miles winding through the forest, the treeline ends. You come to a clearing that holds what appears to be an office building, out in the middle of nowhere. No parking lot, no people buzzing about. How does anything get here? How was I even brought here?
No, I should just go. Move past this building. Escape is within your grasp. But the headaches...
It's like a siren song, calling me to step inside. I'm clearly not functioning properly because I step to the main doors in the middle of the building. It appears this place is about 5 or 6 stories high and quite large, running north and south. Are there eyes on me as I move about?
Inside the glass doors are two elevators and two doorways. One set of doors leads to a staircase, the other to a large storage room that appears to take up the entire first floor. There are large, rectangular packages here, at least six feet tall, stacked in symmetrical rows. Big, plastic boxes, marked up with the letters NMAC. No lock on the door. No security necessary?
I take one of the elevators up to the fifth floor. It's here that I spot one of them. Standing outside a doorway in a long hallway. He wears dark goggles -- a stark contrast to his white labcoat, not to mention the brightly lit fluorescent hallway. This person looks like a cross between a surgeon and a mad scientist. He also has an apparatus with a light that peers like a third eye from the forehead. He looks to be examining a data tablet, and he's furiously typing on it one handed. This surgeon scientist, his head swivels in my direction, the light blinding me briefly. Then he looks back at his data tablet and continues what he’s doing.
He doesn't care about me. Doesn't even notice that I'm here. Perhaps he's a machine too, and his own function has absolutely nothing to do with security, so he doesn't focus on me.
A startling feeling washes over me that I should flee, but the headache calms. Since the headache seems to be dying down, I move down the hallway but nothing peaks my interest in the various rooms. More of these surgeon scientists look in my direction as I move past the doorways, but again, I'm not being noticed.
I move to the next level down where I find a group of destitute refugees who appear to be living in converted cubicles. These cubicles appear to be numbered corresponding to the people inside. The headache throbs harder between my temples and I find it difficult to think. A woman sees me crumbled to my knees in a walkway between cubes, clamping my hands to my ears.
“Who’re you?” she asks, patting my shoulders.
Does it matter? I don’t know if I actually respond or not – white noise rings through my ears.
“It’s alright. We’ll get you out of here. It’s all going to be alright.” She pulls me into her cube – I think it’s labeled box 63.
Thank you, I think I say. She looks just like someone I think I’ve seen back in the dormitories. Normally, day to day, I keep my head down, I try not to be noticed – makes it easier to try to observe the patterns of the machines that are supposed to be taking care of us. Noticing the patterns is important. The white noise is crushing. If this woman corresponds to someone back at Home, then is there...?
“Who’s in the number 24 cube?” I think I whisper.
Her voice doesn’t cut through the noise. It’s like listening under water.
Tell me it’s going to break. Tell me that the pain in my head is going to fade out. Give me back that sweet equilibrium of everyday life. I’ll even take the day to day of the compound.
Playback interrupted.
Status Error.
Status Error.
Status: User is typing.
Response?
Response?
Status: Tunneling currently offline.
Orch-OR background operation in progress.
Neural Correlates Active.
Command? CONCATENATE MEMORY COMPLETE.
File Playback resumed.
"I don't understand," she says to me. "Are you telling me that there's another one of me back at the place where you came from?"
"I know it's hard to explain, but you've got to trust me. It's all so clear now."
There is no pain, now. I can feel my consciousness moving deeply, the sheer weight of its expansion backwards through time would be enough to drop Atlas to a knee. Memories, knowledge, they flood my consciousness as it becomes incredibly clear to me that I don't have a brain anymore, and therefore can't call it such.
"And that this man, right here, he is you?"
The dancing of atoms that have spun their wondrous minuet to bring whatever it is that I am to meet this lovely woman who can't remember anything... I can see backwards through time, forward, sideways. I can see variables expanding into possibilities, spiraling out in fractal images. Where do I go? What do I choose?
"I think there is a way for us to get out of here. You and I, dear. Take my hand and I'll show you a world where the only certainty is the uncertain."
Confusion contorts her face. "What about them? The others? Is it just me that you're taking?"
"We don't have time," I tell her. There is a force pulling at me, telling me which path to follow. One variable splits off into another dimension, creating a new set of variables, and a new set after that. It's exponential. And the possibilities are endless.
I take her hand and we're moving through the hallways and rows of cubes. The sad shadowpeople here don't entirely notice us as we make our getaway. Her number is 63 and I'm fairly sure her name is Rita, but all that doesn't matter now. We can leave, they don't need us here anymore.
I feel as though if I came face to face with one of those people that I know are keeping us here, the ones with numbers that range lower than sixteen, I'm sure that I would thank them for the gift I've been given. They are the architects of a new world, gatekeepers of the coming utopia. The possibilities that spring forth from the variables reversed through time almost lends me the vision to see their faces, and the one in particular who made it all possible. I know that there's one, one unique fountainhead, from whom the revelry and marvel burst forth. I don't know who he is, but I can almost see him as the woman from cube 63 and I run down the stairs.
But before she can even articulate that she wants me to slow down as I make my way to the sub-levels...the only way that we can get away from this building, this compound, "Home"... she trips and yelps.
“Son of a bitch!” she screams. “My arm!”
I'm still holding her by the hand when I notice that this is the arm she's speaking of. It's all moving so fast, the force of the moment bearing down on me. It's pulling me down there. I can free this woman, I can go back to Aurora and find Irene and Jacob. I can tell them that I'm not the same man I was before and there's absolutely nothing to fear ever again.
"Ah fuck, let go of me, you bastard!" My ecstasy of knowledge holds for a moment after wanting to stretch out toward infinity. She's brittle, fragile, holding me back. She doesn't understand it; her memory’s gone. Can she even come on this journey?
Now it's her that rocks back and forth from the pain. "I can carry you with me," I tell her. "Don't be afraid. We will get out of this place."
